


Short Circuit

by hellhoundsprey



Series: spn kink bingo 2020 [16]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Body Shaming, Bottom Jensen Ackles, Chubby Jensen Ackles, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Jock Jared Padalecki, M/M, Name-Calling, Nerd Jensen Ackles, Size Kink, Top Jared Padalecki, bully jared padalecki, fatshaming, puking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24454336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Jensen gets a cool new piece of tech for his birthday. Things deteriorate from there.2020 kink bingo square 09: plus size
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Series: spn kink bingo 2020 [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602964
Comments: 3
Kudos: 57
Collections: SPN Kink Bingo 2020





	Short Circuit

**Author's Note:**

> This Jared is a complete asshole and very hurtful on purpose in regards of fat shaming and body shaming. Please check the tags if this is a safe story for you!
> 
> Jensen doesn’t verbally consent but does get off on what’s happening.

There’s a certain shade of humiliation for your mother looking you up and down, asking:

“Aren’t you getting a little old for toys like that, honey?”

Even Josh had piped up and corrected her that, hey, drones are super-hot right now, Youtubers and filmmakers use them all the time. “It’s like a GoPro that can fly,” he said, and Mom tried hard not to let her children know she didn’t understand a single word she just heard.

On Jensen’s twenty-second birthday, the drone is accompanied by a new pair of jeans, a game for his PS4 and a trial gym membership.

It’s a sunny first of March, all thanks to global warming, if you believe in that kinda stuff. (Unlike Jensen’s mom, who’s also still very much in denial about the basic concept of homosexuality. But that’s a whole other war zone Jensen doesn’t intend to unleash). Jensen pulls his favorite cap over his head, stuffs a can of Monster and a bag of chips and a bag of string cheese and his new baby—he’s set it up already, of course—and heads out the door with a, “Be back in a few!” and a bright smile on his face.

There’ll be cake, aunts and uncles and grandma when he returns. Pinched cheeks and he adores all of them, he truly does, but the weather is too good to waste.

That this would be a thought in his head, ever, feels ridiculous. But here he is.

Jensen takes the car. It’s a short cruise to campus and the parking lot by the stadium is blissfully deserted. The game had been last night, after all; nothing more to see here.

Jensen makes his way up the bleachers to set up his station—his laptop juggled on his knees and he caves early, pops the energy drink open to have a few good sips from it while he starts the software.

It’s all heartbeat and sugar in his mouth by the time she’s in the air, finally.

She zooms by with a flick of the controller. A beauty.

Jensen tilts his head backwards to watch her go vertical. Eyes back on the screen—the footage is beautiful, crystal clear.

It’s odd to see the city you’ve lived in all your life from such a new perspective. Really puts things in relation, in some way. Everything is so small. Faceless, if you zoom out far enough, anonymous and not single objects anymore but an amalgamation, one solid organism.

Trees, buildings, the lake. The highway a mere worm, a snake slithering through the landscape.

Jensen brings her back down to race her across campus. Above manicured grass, still-overflowing trash bins; red cups and takeout containers. According to Josh, the afterparty had been intense. Jensen wouldn’t know.

Everyone’s still in their dorms, sleeping off last night’s bender. Have yet to wake up, maybe peel themselves off of somebody, regret their choices.

Jensen digs in his backpack for the bag of chips.

Their college isn’t exactly famous for their sports division (or any other, for that matter), so the track field exists solely for the sake of it. The high school had theirs done a few years back and now this place is humble in comparison. Jensen’s not a runner (ha!) so it’s not like it’s of any of his concern.

But there’s a lone figure, here. Out of all places. Jogging their God-knows how many rounds. A decent pace.

Jensen shoves another handful of chips into his mouth with a frown and tilts the joystick forward.

Closer. Long-ish hair, but yeah, definitely a dude. Basketball shorts, basketball tank; mismatched and off-brand, not their team’s colors.

Jensen lets the drone follow them from a polite, invisible distance. The mic picks up the heavy footsteps through the otherwise empty silence. Jensen imagines hearing their breath—controlled, sharp.

Jensen’s thumb directs the drone in a circle around them, several feet in the air, but that’s when they notice and look up.

A blank stare of confusion, of irritation. They ignore the drone eventually, eyes up front again.

Jensen lets his toy follow them, closer now. Draws generous circles until he hears a scoff, hears a voice.

_“You here to cheer me on, huh?”_

Jensen’s mouth breaks into a smile.

He lets the drone dip down and up, like a nod.

The guy smirks. His voice shakes with exertion. _“Pervert,”_ he says, and Jensen flushes hot and unexpected.

Would insist _that’s not what this is_ or something similar. But he won’t be heard anyway.

Jensen clears his throat as quietly as he can, out on the lonely bleachers. Sips his Monster and inches the drone along with the guy.

Round and around they go.

The longer it goes on, the more Jensen has to agree that yeah, in some way, this is…pretty voyeuristic.

The guy’s fit, has a pretty face—long, lean legs, toned arms. Doesn’t make a show, doesn’t try to impress, and maybe that’s what makes it worse. That he looks like that without effort. Can be out here, half-naked, and doesn’t do it for an audience. Doesn’t have to.

Jensen inches the drone closer, until he can make out beads of sweat, beauty marks.

The guy’s arm extends too fast for Jensen to react, and all of a sudden, the drone doesn’t listen to the controller anymore.

Can’t, with how it’s grabbed tight in two hands, now.

The guy holds Jensen’s belongings out in front of him, all out of breath and considering the camera, and Jensen’s stomach sinks so immediately he can re-taste the carbon of his drink.

“No, nonononono—!”

 _“You want this back?”_ they pant, without a smile. _“Come get it.”_

Jensen moves so fast he kicks over his drink. Nearly drops his laptop and feels like crying, like sobbing, and is gonna die.

Can feel the sweat bathing him, his heart hammering and his guts clenching and fuck, oh fuck.

“Why are you so fucking stupid,” he curses, under his breath, and stumbles his way towards the ground.

~

They must’ve seen him approaching, make out his silhouette from afar.

Jensen’s still fucking humiliated for that up-and-down pan of eyes.

The guy is squatting in front of one of the few trees surrounding the track field. It’s chilly here, in the shadow, but even from afar, Jensen gets a taste of that body heat.

Can smell the sweat, the cheap (failing) deodorant.

Jensen extends his hand as soon as he is within reach. “Give it back. Please.”

The guy has his drone clasped tight in his (huge) hands. Pins Jensen with his too-sharp eyes and Jensen cringes, deeply.

Pleads, “Come on, please,” and feels his face absolutely burning.

“I know you,” hears Jensen. “Ackles, right?”

The guy gets to his feet, and, holy shit.

He’s _tall_. “You’re Josh’s brother. The fat kid.”

“I—yeah.” Jensen clears his throat, again. Clenches his still-reaching hand. “C-can you…?”

“What, this?” The guy holds Jensen’s drone up with one hand only, and Jensen nearly surges forward.

“Please, I got it _today_ , I didn’t mean to bother you—”

“You always beg so easy?” Not a single beat for Jensen to object. “Didn’t know our captain’s had such a pussy little brother.”

Jensen deflates with too-well-known dread.

Feels his heart sink and he doesn’t want this. Doesn’t want to be _that guy_ , but he can never shake this type off, can he?

The guy smirks, superior. Bulging muscles and sharp jaw and his cheeks dent with the bite of his dimples, and his hair sticks to his face in sweaty, overlong strands.

“What, cat got your tongue?”

The guy makes a step forward, and Jensen retracts his arm.

He repeats, faintly, “Please give it back,” and reddens deeper at, “What, so you can keep playing peeping tom, fatty?”

His chance to announce, “It’s not like that,” and it even _feels_ weak in his throat.

“What was that? Didn’t hear that.”

Not any louder (he can’t), “It’s not like that,” and the fist grabbing him by his shirt is a surprise-not-surprise.

Jensen nearly drops his bag with how violently he’s spun into the tree.

The whiplash leaves him with pudding in his knees and he steels himself, can’t feel his face; too frozen to even raise his arms to protect his face because God it’s been so long since high school, and he thought things would change—everyone always told him that, lied to him, and he believed them.

A knee between his legs and Jensen hears, “Tell me you’re sorry, faggot,” and his eyes widen in terror at the sight of that long-long arm extending, holding the drone like the guy’s about to drop it, so far out of Jensen’s reach, Jensen’s capabilities.

Again, “Tell me you’re sorry,” and Jensen splutters, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” eyes darting between his birthday gift and the stone-faced bully up in his face, and he feels cool-slick skin against his fingers and maybe he’s grabbing this guy’s arm, still bunching up his tee under his chin, knuckles against Jensen’s throat.

“I’msorrypleasedon’tbreakit—”

“Say ‘I’m sorry for leering at your ass in those shorts, Jared’.”

“I, I’m s-sorry, for—” Jensen’s hyper-ventilating. And maybe, if he loses consciousness, that’s for the better. Slouches against the tree and the guy’s grip might be the only thing holding him up at this point. “—f-for leering over. At your assinthoseshortsjared.”

“Don’t look very sorry to me,” the guy sneers, and Jensen’s eyes bulge more with that harsh jut of thigh into his crotch.

“I’m so sorry, please,” and Jensen’s almost forgot what exactly he’s trying to plead mercy for by the time he’s reminded—by the guy lowering his hand with the drone in it, like a threat, like he’s about to drop it—

“Show me how sorry you are, then.”

Jensen’s brain short-circuits with the shift of those hips. Of the hard line of the guy’s dick meeting his own.

His eyes widen. Find an almost-smile, lopsided, on that stranger’s face.

Jensen’s forgot how to fucking breathe.

“You want your toy back? Better prove it, Ackles.”

Jensen’s paralyzed. Because surely, this is a joke. And if he moves, the guy’s gonna drop the drone to punch Jensen square in the face.

“Get me out, come on,” and another roll of hips, imperative, and yeah, his hands _had_ been on that wrist because now they aren’t.

Takes nothing more than a tug on that polyester waistband for the slim air between them to smell like dick.

Like warmth and skin, and Jensen’s gonna be fucking sick.

“Gimme a hand. Familiar with that, aren’t you?” and Jensen wraps his palm around that cock without hesitation, without thinking further about what that might say about him, but there’s no ‘correct’ course of action in these scenarios. They’ll twist and turn it however they like—against him.

A baby-twitch to that mouth for that first stroke.

“Fucking slut.”

Jensen trembles, caught, with his glasses fogging up with how close they are, with how hot the guy breathes on him. Jensen squeezes his fist, tight, and has to stack his second hand over the other to cover the entire length of it.

The guy laughs for that; softly. Almost-toss-back of hair and he returns even closer to Jensen’s face and Jensen’s mouth pulls tight, and his eyes clamp shut, and he just wants it over with.

“So fucking hot for it, aren’t you?” Leaned-in against Jensen’s ear and he shudders, twists, but to no avail. “You like that? All big for you? Fuck.”

There’s an objection, somewhere in Jensen. Somewhere he can’t reach, where it doesn’t matter.

Where the guy slithers his words into, where Jensen feels himself clenching for a drag of teeth behind his ear, down his too-sweaty throat; for that fist going from the neckline of his tee to his shoulder and bearing _down_.

“On your fucking knees, Ackles.”

It’s new. He doesn’t know this.

Drops, pitifully, helplessly; his bag slouches from his shoulder into the grass and he’s eye-to-eye with this guy’s crotch, can smell and taste it over the meager distance and his cap gets lifted off his head, pulled back down on it the wrong way around so it’s out of the way.

Jensen’s crowded in against the tree in his back, the guy in his front, and he has his hands flat on those thighs like useless accessories, because this is somehow happening right the fuck now.

It’s no huge transition because his mouth has been hanging open anyway, but the taste is wild, and his stomach protests, but there’s nowhere to go and the guy pushes past Jensen’s lips, straight across his tongue and beyond.

“This still recording?” he hears, looks up just to see the guy holding the drone above his head, lens pointed where Jensen’s kneeling in the dirt sucking cock, and Jensen feels utterly, entirely owned.

Hears, “God,” and, “Your mouth,” and feels his eyes filling with tears, forgets how to struggle and that cock dips down his gullet, has him gagging immediately and shamefully before it retreats, punches out the inside of his cheek instead.

The guy pulls out, slaps him across his face with it.

“Fuck.”

Jensen’s too fucking shocked to move. Can’t even bat his eye at the guy placing the drone down, retrieving his phone from his back pocket before he’s caged Jensen in once more.

“So fucking soft everywhere, aren’t you?”

Jensen lets him into his mouth, again. Hears him purr all appreciative, amused.

“Look at me, bitch.”

Jensen’s eyes pan skywards. Towards that pleased face, the back of his phone.

Slur-laughed, “Shit,” and Jensen’s hands remember how to come up and fight upon an insistent push forwards and down his throat; God, how big is this guy, and Jensen’s nose is _still_ not touching those pubes.

Jensen gags, held in place.

“Fucking take it.”

He can’t breathe. Gulps for air once he can, once there’s space in his throat again; but not for long.

Guy finally makes it balls-deep, and Jensen wasn’t aware his throat had that much capacity.

His throat doesn’t think so, either.

With the pull-back comes the energy drink, the handfuls of chips—halfway through Jensen’s nose because his gullet is preoccupied, still, and he surges (forward? away?) but where would he go, there’s nowhere to go.

The guy explodes with laughter as Jensen throws up over his cock, into the grass.

These are reflex tears, he’d say if it mattered, chokes and coughs with that cock still angling in, ignoring the mess that is Jensen and his face and Jensen hears, “Shit,” and that hand goes atop his head, yanks his cap off him to fist into his hair instead.

Jensen’s not done heaving by the time he’s stuffed once more; pubic bone smushed against his nose and he’s not here, not really. Somewhere beyond, above. Flying. Invisible.

“Shit,” somewhere, “you’re such a fucking _mess_.”


End file.
